


Punching in a Dream

by Sarea Okelani (sarea)



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Belts, Cruise Ship, F/M, Light BDSM, Plot What Plot, Undercover, pre-avengers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-26
Updated: 2012-07-26
Packaged: 2017-11-10 18:25:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarea/pseuds/Sarea%20Okelani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To maintain their cover, Natasha asks Clint to treat her a little more roughly than he normally likes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Punching in a Dream

**Author's Note:**

> A pre-Avengers mission for Clint and Natasha that is basically an excuse for them to get it on. Light BDSM. Thanks tons to adelagia and laria_gwyn for swooping in with their quick beta work. I'd kind of forgotten how embarrassing it is to get beta on smut. >.> Title comes from a song by The Naked and Famous. A mirror of this story can be found at [LiveJournal](http://sarea-okelani.livejournal.com/400772.html).

"Punching in a Dream"  
by Sarea Okelani

//\\\

Clint eyes Natasha's slinky dress, which leaves just enough to the imagination that it runs wild.

"Does it have to be that dress?"

Natasha applies the finishing touches to her makeup. "It doesn't _have_ to be. But we want this to go well so we can get out of here, right?" Her eyes meet his in the mirror as she reaches into her dress and makes a slight adjustment to enhance her already impressive cleavage, causing him to scowl.

It's a rhetorical question so Clint doesn't bother to answer, at least not in words. But he does walk over to her as she's sliding her stockings on and slides his hand along her inner thigh, up and up until she catches her breath when he's close to the center of her. That's when he stops. He leaves his hand there for only seconds, but it's long enough to have made his point.

"Why, big brother, what will people say?" Natasha purrs.

Clint makes a face. "Don't call me that."

She laughs a little. "You know, saying it doesn't actually make it true." She hands him a choker, which he deftly fastens around her neck. He's done this more times than he can count, helped put her femme fatale costume on, hide her beneath layers of expensive clothing, makeup, jewelry and heady perfume. Every layer taking her further from him, but making her shine so brightly that it gives him the cover of anonymity he needs, all eyes on her and not him, so he can watch from afar and do what he does best.

Natasha turns and circles her arms around his neck. "You look pretty good yourself."

Clint shrugs. "Yeah, I know."

She smiles, straightening his tie, and he knows _she_ knows that despite his outward cockiness he's hating this. After a moment he slaps her hands away, straightening the tie himself. This isn't his first undercover operation, far from it, but he's more comfortable in the shadows, on the sidelines, somewhere he can see and not be seen. A little strange for someone who used to star in a circus act, but that was a long time ago. So long, in fact, that it sometimes feels as though it is part of someone else's history.

Partly Clint's annoyed because this isn't supposed to be his mission. He's here in Covey's place because Covey's sniffles had turned into the flu, prompting Coulson to pull him out. Clint had been trying to take a nap, Nat at the foot of his bed reading a book, when Coulson had knocked on his door and entered with an apologetic smile and a suit.

"How do you feel about boats?"

"Hate them," Clint had said, not caring about boats one way or another but distrusting where this was going.

"What if it's an ocean liner with private suites?"

"Even worse." This was sounding all too familiar. Natasha had already told him all about her assignment. He'd looked at her accusingly. "Did you know about this?"

She shook her head. Coulson held up the suit. Clint sighed.

It was fairly straightforward, as far as these things went. The granddaughter of some Texas oil tycoon was having her 25th birthday, and her granddad was throwing her an extravagant party aboard an ocean liner that would sail out to the Pacific, where it'd stay overnight. The liner would dock again the next afternoon. Neither the tycoon nor his granddaughter was particularly interesting. However, SHIELD had learned that one of the confirmed guests was Richard Messano, a bit player in an international drug and prostitution ring that had been frustratingly evasive in terms of intel. Messano wasn't particularly important himself, but it was rumored that he kept a list of his suppliers and clients on a data card that he carried near him at all times. If SHIELD could get their hands on that card – with Messano, and thus his contacts, none the wiser – it would go a long way to providing pivotal leads on the key players.

SHIELD had gotten Natasha and Agent Tim Covey onto the guest list as wealthy siblings whose parents were investors in the tycoon's various companies. Then they just needed to recover Messano's data card, copy it, and get out. Simple. Natasha could have done it on her own, but they wanted extra insurance on this one. Originally, Clint wasn't going to be involved; not much use for a sniper on a cruise ship out in the middle of the ocean. He'd been looking forward to spending some time in the tech lab being a pain in the ass to Stevenson about adding a few modifications to his quiver that Clint deemed necessary.

Covey getting sick blew all of Clint's plans to hell.

Clint and Natasha double check their weapons, make sure nothing suspicious draws one's eye in her suite, and give each other the once over a final time. Natasha plasters a smile on her face and Clint does the same. As soon as they exit they nearly run into another couple making their way out, flashing false greetings. Clint offers Natasha his arm, which she takes. The message in her eyes is clear. _Show time._

The first thing they do to blend in is procure glasses of wine before paying their respects to the birthday girl and her doting grandfather, both of whom pretend to know exactly who Clint and Natasha are. Sometimes the job is too easy.

Natasha being Natasha, it doesn't take long for her to get the attention of Messano, a slim, attractive man in his mid-forties. He's accompanied by a brunette who looks much younger than the age SHIELD has on the report, Clint notes. She's Yazmin Anderson, Messano's longtime assistant and sometime lover. As his right-hand woman, she accompanies him everywhere.

As they pass by the other couple, Natasha pretends to trip, splashing wine on Anderson, who exclaims and looks visibly annoyed, trying to dab at the wet spot with a paper napkin.

"I'm so sorry," Natasha bursts out, affecting a slight southern drawl.

"Oh, Missy," Clint says in a long-suffering voice. "Allow me to apologize for my sister, ma'am. I insist on paying for your dry cleaning."

Anderson looks up from her dress, and Clint knows he has her hooked when her look of annoyance melts away at the sight of his smile, which he injects with extra Barton charm.

"It's... quite all right," Anderson says, obviously trying not to sound frustrated. "At least it was white wine."

"That's very understanding of you. I'm David Hudson," Clint says. "And this is my accident-prone sister, Missy."

"Yazmin Anderson," she says, holding out a hand, which Clint takes and holds for a second longer than necessary. He can tell she's gratified.

"Yazmin, oh, your beautiful dress! That was incredibly clumsy of me," says Natasha, her voice still oozing apology. "Excuse me, sir, could you be ever so kind and get some napkins from that server over there?"

Messano complies with the request after letting his gaze linger on Natasha's cleavage. He retrieves the napkins and offers them to Natasha. Clint takes them instead, handing a few to Anderson so she can take care of the droplets on her chest, while he blots her dress in more modest places.

"I really am very sorry," Natasha simpers.

Anderson doesn't even look at her, appearing only too willing to be distracted by Clint. Clint hears Messano reassuring Natasha that it was an innocent mistake and not to worry, while Natasha plays up the helpless southern belle routine.

"Are you sure there's nothing I can do to make reparations for the harm done to your dress, darlin'?" Clint asks.

"Tell you what," Anderson says, smiling slowly. "You come find me again later and I'll let you know if I think of anything."

"It would be my pleasure," Clint replies, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to it.

"Thank you ever so much for your help," he hears Natasha say to Messano. "It was very nice to meet you. My brother and I are going to take a walk along the deck."

"I adore walks," Messano replies smarmily.

It's all Clint can do not to gag as they depart. He rescues two flutes of champagne from a passing server's tray and hands one to Natasha. They make their way over to the bar, and he feels her slip a card key into his jacket pocket. Messano's, presumably. "Don't get into any trouble now, _sis_ ," he mutters under his breath, and she digs the heel of her shoe lightly into his foot. He leaves Natasha making small talk with the other patrons at the bar, while glancing over her shoulder at Messano to keep him interested.

As he's been briefed on the layout of the ocean liner and also Messano's assigned suite, Clint is able to make his way there quickly. He searches it top to bottom, replacing things exactly as he finds them, but doesn't turn up the data card. During his search, Natasha informs him and Coulson in low voice over comms that Anderson has left Messano's side and is talking to the birthday girl, so Natasha's going to see if she can entice him into approaching her (as if there's any doubt). The adjoining suite, Clint assumes, is Anderson's, and it's child's play to get the connecting door open. He gives the room the same treatment as Messano's after confirming with Natasha that the other woman is still at the party. Nothing.

Clint activates his mic and reports his findings — or lack thereof.

"We'll have to go to plan C," says Coulson in his ear.

"Plan C? What the hell's plan C?" Clint hisses as loud as he dares. He assumes plan B was him replacing Covey. "I wasn't told about any plan C."

"I _know_ ," comes Natasha's half-laughing drawl over comms, clearly speaking to them while keeping Messano unaware.

"Good luck, Agent Romanoff," says Coulson.

"Good luck with what?" Clint demands, his finger next to his ear, which keeps his mic open.

"Thank you," Natasha responds in that same bubbly voice.

"Agent Romanoff is going to seduce the mark, Barton. I'd think that was obvious," says Coulson in that unflappable way of his. "You should keep his personal assistant busy."

"Wait... _what_?" says Clint, but no one responds. He hurries out of Messano's suite. Now he knows why he'd been kept in the dark about plan C.

On his way back to the deck, he nearly plows into Anderson coming out of the ladies' room. "Oh, hi," she says, clearly glad to see him again. "David, right?"

The thought of Natasha with Messano is at the forefront of Clint's mind, but he's too highly trained to compromise his cover. He pretends to scratch his ear, surreptitiously activating his mic again so Coulson and Natasha can hear him greet her. "Ms. Anderson," he says, giving her a winning smile. "I was hoping to see you again." Clint lowers his arm, hearing Coulson confirm and reinforce the order to keep her busy.

She looks pleased by his comment. "Yazmin, please," she says, and allows him to steer her away from the entrance he knows Natasha will likely use to lead Messano back to his suite.

It's clear Anderson's already had quite a bit to drink, but she's not inebriated quite enough for Clint. "You wait right here," he says in a teasing voice. "I'll go get us a couple of drinks. Don't move an inch, all right?"

It's crowded on the deck, and he uses the crush of people to cover him as he passes behind Natasha and slips Messano's card key into the other man's pocket. Natasha doesn't change her demeanor by an eyelash, but he knows she's aware of his movements.

At the bar, Clint orders two drinks, then tells Coulson, "I hate you, you know that?"

"Don't worry, she's going to knock him out," comes Coulson's cool, amused voice. "Did I not mention that part?"

"My previous statement stands," Clint mutters, but he's relieved and is man enough to admit it to himself.

Twenty agonizing minutes later, he's strolling on the deck with Anderson, trying to point out constellations, but he had never paid much attention to astronomy and exhausts his knowledge quickly. He starts making some of it up, and thankfully it appears that Anderson was never very good at astronomy either, because she doesn't question his dubious statements. Or maybe all the alcohol she's had is compromising her mental capacity. Whatever it is, he's grateful.

"He's out," comes Natasha's efficient voice over comms. "Checking him." A few moments later, she's back. "No data card."

"Are you sure?"

Clint wants to roll his eyes at Coulson's question; of _course_ Natasha's sure. Instead he continues to smile at Yazmin, hoping he's acting appropriately interested in whatever she's saying.

"I'm sure," says Natasha patiently. "It's not in the suite, either. Barton was right. Should we abort?"

"No," says Coulson. "He wouldn't let it go far."

"Anderson," Natasha says suddenly. "She must have it."

"Barton," says Coulson. "We'll have to go to plan D. You'll have to get Anderson into your room and get that card. Do whatever you need to do."

Clint's just taken a sip of champagne, which was a bad move in retrospect, because now he's coughed it inelegantly back up in front of the mark, but how was he to know? Why wasn't he informed of either plan C _or_ D, considering that plan fucking D involved his goddamned fucking participation?

"Are you all right?" Anderson says, sidling up to him in concern. She has her hands on his back now, under the guise of soothing him during his coughing fit, but all she's really doing is molesting him.

Clint takes the opportunity to double over and activate his mic. "Fine," he says. "Fuck, well, that was unexpected." This is directed at Coulson and Natasha, of course, but he feigns otherwise as he straightens, shaking his head a bit and smiling. "Sorry about that. Went down the wrong way."

"Barton, get her to your room. I'll meet you there," Natasha says.

"Looks like you're out," Clint says, indicating Anderson's empty champagne flute. "I have another bottle in my room, if you'd be interested."

Anderson leans in close, assaulting him with a combination of her perfume and alcohol-laden breath. "I thought you'd never ask," she says in what she probably imagines is a sexy way. She openly gropes him all the way to the suite while simultaneously trying to kiss him, and people are staring as they pass. He fakes laughter and pretends he's as drunk as she is, while at the same time keeping them both upright and headed in the appropriate direction. It's harder than it sounds, because he keeps having to remove Anderson's hand from his crotch, and she seems to get more boneless with each step, until soon he feels like he's supporting all of her weight as she leans against him.

"You're strong," she says into the side of Clint's neck, then bites his earlobe, hard.

"Ow! _Jesus_ ," he says, and kind of wants to just dump her unceremoniously in front of the door, which is mercifully in sight. He fumbles in his pocket for the key, while she clings to his neck like a limpet. He finally gets the door open, and magically her muscles seem to work again, backing into the room while dragging him in with her by the lapels of his suit jacket, her tongue in his mouth.

As soon as the door closes behind them, Natasha steps forward and sticks a needle into the other woman's neck. Anderson barely has time to look surprised before she goes completely limp in Clint's arms, eyes falling closed. He takes her over to the couch and settles her there, and the way she lands looks really uncomfortable, so he does his best to make sure her limbs are all supported.

"Want to bake her a cake, too?"

Clint turns. "Just making sure—" Natasha doesn't let him finish, swiping a tissue roughly across his lips, then planting her mouth on his and holding him against her much the way Anderson had. But unlike with the brunette, Clint finds himself responding immediately to his partner, sliding his hands up the back of her dress and deepening the kiss.

Natasha smiles against his mouth. "Better check her for the card."

"I'll let you do the honors."

While Natasha searches, Clint takes off his tie and comms unit while firing up the laptop. She finds the card in a fairly obvious place — Anderson's bra. Natasha hands it to Clint, who immediately starts copying the files while she removes her comms device and kicks off her shoes.

"Now..." Natasha says, thumbs hooking under the straps of her dress, pulling them down. The dress slithers to the floor. "...let's take care of the rest of plan D." She unhooks her strapless black bra, and Clint's mouth goes dry at the sight of those gorgeous full breasts, naked, pink tipped, and so very close.

He briefly wonders if "plan D" refers to Natasha's bra size. "Way to tell me about plan D, by the way. And C. Didn't you or Coulson think I should be privy to either plan?" Clint feigns indifference to her near nudity, trying to make the point that he's pretty irritated with them both at the moment.

Natasha shrugs, and in Clint's peripheral vision he sees one breast bob distractingly. He determinedly refuses to look. "We were hoping it wouldn't come to that." She strolls over to him, wearing only a pair of lacy black panties, and straddles him on the chair. Natasha doesn't like being ignored. Now her breasts are inches from his face, and it takes every ounce of willpower Clint possesses to not immediately suck a pale pink nipple into his mouth. "But it's actually worked out perfectly," she says, running her hands up his chest, "that you're here instead of Covey."

"Why's that?" Clint congratulates himself for sounding mostly normal with those tits nearly poking him in the eyes. He can't hide what's going on in his pants, though, and Natasha presses knowingly closer to him. He lets out an involuntary whimper.

"Because we can fuck, which will make things a lot easier," she whispers in his ear.

While Clint agrees that any time he can fuck Natasha is cause for approval, he's not quite following what that has to do with the mission. His lack of clarity must show, because she continues, "You read the file. Messano likes it rough. In the morning, he's not going to believe we slept together if there's no evidence of it. That's where _you_ come in."

"What would you have done if I weren't here?" Clint wants to know, but also doesn't. She's told him before that since joining SHIELD she's never officially been asked to sleep with her marks, so she's put that life behind her. But sometimes Clint wonders if she ever lapses back to her old ways, or is tempted to, because Natasha likes expediency, and sex doesn't mean to her what it means to other people. What it means to _him_ when they make love. Or at least he doesn't think it does. He's not sure what she feels for him or what exactly it is they have. She's never told him she'd be faithful, nor asked fidelity of him, but he's pretty sure he's the only man she fucks, and she sure as hell is the only woman who's ever in his bed.

Natasha gives a low laugh. "It shouldn't be cute when you're jealous, but it is," she says. "I would've had to do it to myself, of course." Then she palms his cheek, rubbing her thumb across his five-o-clock shadow. He hears the rasp of his stubble against her skin. She nods approvingly. "Good."

"Really?" She's complained about whisker burns more than once. Never seriously, but he does try to be considerate of her smooth pale skin.

"I need you to mark me up," she replies, and he'd be lying if he tried to deny that he doesn't get instantly hard at her words. Natasha smiles. "There you are." She starts unbuttoning his dress shirt, making sure her nails scratch him as she goes.

Clint finally gives in to what he's wanted to do since she bared herself to him, congratulating himself on how long he held out, and cups her breasts in both hands, loving the way they overflow his palms when he squeezes. Her nipples harden into pebbles, his tongue flicks over one of them, circling, and he raises his eyes to meet her darkening green ones. He closes his teeth over her skin, biting down until she moans. He pulls away. "Too hard?"

Natasha draws his head back. "Do it to the other one."

He's nothing if not dutiful. Her nipple leaves his mouth red and puckered. He sucks on the side of her breast, leaving another mark there. He soothes it with his tongue.

"Now my neck," she says, tilting her head and offering it to him. Clint brushes her hair away, looking for her pulse point. It's easy to spot; her heartbeat is erratic, and he's glad to see evidence that she's as turned on as he is. He feels like a villain out of a Bela Lugosi movie, sucking on her neck this way, but the way she moans and holds him closer makes him understand the appeal. He bites at her skin, always running his tongue over the hurt afterward to make up for it. Clint pulls away to admire his handiwork.

Natasha scowls at the expression on his face. "Don't get used to it, Barton," she says warningly.

"What? I'm just doing what you told me to," he says innocently. "Kiss me, Natasha."

She does, her tongue building a map of the inside of his mouth, or so it seems to him. She kisses the corner of his mouth, then trails kisses down his jaw until she reaches his neck. She gives him the same treatment he gave her, until he turns his head a bit so he can trace her ear with his tongue. Natasha gasps against his skin.

Clint holds a breast in one hand while the other moves to caress her between her silky thighs, her underwear already soaking wet. She's probably stained his suit pants, but he can't bring himself to care. SHIELD will cover the dry cleaning bill, and anyway, what they're doing is for God and country. Maybe even the world, if he wants to get really philosophical about it. He slides his finger over the elastic and now it's her, just her, the wet heat of her and he can't help it, he plunges that finger right up inside and adds another one immediately after. She cries out and squeezes him so tight, and Clint groans as he imagines what she's going to feel like around his dick.

Natasha rides his fingers a bit, making the most delicious sounds in the back of her throat, before she pushes off him. He leans back more comfortably in the chair and watches her peel the black panties off her shapely legs, exposing the rest of herself to him. God, she's hot. Sometimes he wonders how he got to be the lucky bastard who she fucks on a regular basis. And even though it probably doesn't mean any more to her than that, sometimes he pretends that they're a normal couple, with normal desires under normal circumstances.

"Give me your belt," she says, holding out a hand. "I want you to whip me with it."

That delusion always fades pretty quickly.

Clint stands, unfastens his belt, and pulls it from his waistband. He hands it over to Natasha. She tests its tension, taking a couple of practice swings against the mattress, then folds the belt in two and does it again. She nods, apparently satisfied, and holds it back out to him.

"Hold it by the ends," she tells him. "Don't hit me with the buckle."

"Uh, _I know_ ," he says, exasperated. "You think I never got whipped as a kid?" The Swordsman and Trick Shot weren't exactly the cotton-candy buying, nurturing sort.

Natasha shrugs, leaning over to give him a kiss. "I never know what you know, Barton. Sometimes you seem almost like a child." She doesn't mean for it to be insulting; he knows that. Since she never got to be a child, not really, whenever someone doesn't know something she knows, she assumes it's from childish naïveté.

But that's the last way he wants her to think of him right now. "Get on the bed." He gestures with the hand holding the belt. "Hold the headboard." She does as he says, and he rolls up his sleeves and steps out of his socks and shoes. Clint looks at the pale, perfect expanse of her unmarked back, and curses the sadist whose predilections are forcing him to ruin it.

Clint stands on the side of the bed, Natasha watching him with lowered lashes, her face pressed against the headboard. He wants to ask her if she's ready, but they both know the question is really for him, not her, so he stays silent. He takes a breath, then lands a smack against her ass with the belt. It's as gentle as a slap, really, a test of strength. The next one is harder. And the next harder still. Soon her plump little ass cheeks are pink from his exertion, and she still hasn't made a sound, nor has she looked away from him. He feels better, somehow, that she can still look him in the eye, still look so calm, even as her knuckles whiten with each stroke.

After another minute, Clint lowers his arm, stepping close and running his hand over her warmed backside. He rubs over that swell of flesh over and over, as if he can somehow take it all back, then his hand accidentally goes lower than he intended and he brushes against wetness – a lot of it. His gaze flies up to hers in surprise. Natasha meets it steadily. "Now my back," she says softly.

Clint runs a hand over his face. He feels like he's been doing this for hours.

"You're almost done with this part," she says comfortingly, and he's vaguely embarrassed by the fact that she's the one being whipped, yet _she's_ the one reassuring _him_.

Natasha adjusts herself against the headboard, gripping it. "Between the shoulder blades," she says. "Do it hard, twice."

Clint takes another deep breath, letting it out in a whoosh. He brings the belt up and swings it against her back, exactly as she said. She closes her eyes this time and lets out her own breath. Almost immediately a welt rises on her skin. He lowers his arm. "Oh, God."

"Again."

He stares at the upraised, inflamed skin that's dotted with specks of red that's all his fault. He can't stop looking at it. "I think that's enough. It's pretty damn convincing."

"Do it again, Clint."

He decides to be honest. "I don't want to."

"It's okay," she says, sounding calm. "It doesn't even hurt. It looks worse than it is."

He studies her face, trying to deduce if she's lying. Oh who the hell is he kidding; if Natasha Romanoff were lying, it'd take someone far better at reading micro expressions than him to recognize it. And even then, he's not sure there's a facial recognition specialist in the world who could read Natasha.

"Clint," she says, when he still hesitates. "The sooner you do this, the sooner I get to fuck you, so just _do it_."

He tightens his hold on the belt, then slices it through the air. There's a loud crack as it connects with her skin. She gasps this time, and he hates himself when he sees her skin looking red and angry and worse than ever. Clint being Clint, he's managed to target the exact same spot he hit last time, so the same tender skin has gotten abused again. He drops the belt to the floor. Natasha reaches for him and he goes to her, letting his forehead fall onto her shoulder.

"Good job," she says, kissing his temple. Then, "You're wearing far too many clothes, Agent Barton." She pushes his suit jacket off.

As she's already unbuttoned his dress shirt from earlier, Clint takes that off as well, after undoing the nice cufflinks that Coulson lent him. He moves to undo his trousers, but Natasha beats him to it. She slowly moves the zipper over his erection and the trousers pool at his feet. She reaches for the waistband of his underwear next, but at the moment he doesn't trust her hands this close to his hard on. He feels like he might explode any second, and the last thing he wants is to come from a light brush of her hand. So Clint removes his underwear himself, guiding it carefully over his swollen dick. He relaxes a bit once he's freed from the confines of cotton.

His penis bobs in the air like a ridiculous thing, but the joke he's about to crack dies in his throat when he sees Natasha staring at it with intense concentration, licking her lips.

It's more than he can stand. He's only human, for God's sake. Clint grabs himself, forming a ring with his index finger and thumb around the tip of his cock and squeezes hard, until he can feel the urgency subside. He learned that trick about himself early on, and he doesn't know if it works for anyone else, but it's certainly helped him on more than one occasion.

Natasha reaches for him and now they are skin to skin, her arms on his shoulders, her tits mashed tantalizingly against his chest. His cock brushes her abdomen, right above the thatch of red hair between her legs, marking the spot where he most wants to be. They kiss lightly at first, almost chastely, which is such a contrast to their blatantly sexual circumstances that it arouses him even more.

But the kiss deepens of its own accord, becomes carnal as lips and breath coalesce to the point that Clint can't tell whether his tongue is in her mouth or if it's hers in his. It's not enough, not nearly enough, he needs to be closer to her, and he wraps his arms around her tightly. Natasha breaks off the kiss, gasping in a way that's part pleasure, part pain, and Clint lets go immediately.

"Oh shit," he says. "I'm sorry." Like an asshole, he'd completely forgotten the painful welts on her back.

"It's okay," she says breathlessly, grabbing one of his hands and trying to tug him close again. "I was just surprised." He looks at her, askance. "Clint, please."

"All right, but we're doing this my way," he relents. "Turn around and bend over."

She looks like she wants to argue, but to his surprise she doesn't. She turns and he wants to curse at the sight of her once-perfect back, now marred with injuries that _he_ put there. He's seen her bruised and battered before, but never by his hand, and that seems to make all the difference.

Natasha bends over, her face pressed to the sheets, her beautiful round ass swaying in the air. Clint kneels by the side of the bed, his breaths coming short as he appreciates the glistening view before him. He starts with her outer folds, soft, soothing strokes that just leisurely explore the territory. He deliberately avoids her clit and the hot, slick entrance to the heart of her.

"Clint," she moans as he sips from her, making delicate little motions with his tongue. He likes to take it slow, drive her wild, until she's begging him for it. His dick is straining, wanting attention too, wanting to slide into her slick folds, but he tells it to be patient.

"Rub your face against my thighs," Natasha says, and he complies. He knows she wants the light burn from his beard, more evidence for Messano to see in the morning. Messano will think it's his handiwork, but Clint knows that these marks are _his_ , they belong to him, all of them, and he doesn't want the pleasure that floods him as he takes in the thought, inwardly grimaces to remember the belt marks, but there is something undeniably stirring about putting his brand on Natasha. He can't remember ever feeling that way about any other woman.

Natasha's moaning, clawing at the sheets and bunching them in her hand, and Clint thinks he's kept her waiting long enough. He flattens his tongue against her, then slides it forward until he reaches her clit and uses just the tip to flick at it rapidly. The sound she makes is loud and gratifying, shifting her ass back, trying to get closer to him. He grabs her hips to still her, but he's not done. He drags his tongue back, finding the source of the wetness that coats his mouth and chin. He stabs his tongue in there, moving in and out, fucking her with it until she's bucking against his face. He moves one of his hands to her clit, pressing his thumb firmly against it as his tongue continues its rhythm, and in no time she's keening, coming hard against his mouth, muscles contracting around his tongue, her whole body vibrating.

Clint rises to his feet, his knees feeling weak, and urges Natasha forward on the bed. She complies, but slowly, her limbs still shaky after her orgasm. Once there's enough room for him on the bed, he climbs up behind her, using his knees to spread hers further apart. He grabs her hips, his fingers biting into her flesh, and raises her up to meet him halfway. He positions himself against her opening, edging just the tip in, intending to go slow, but the feel of her, the post-orgasm tremors that she's still experiencing, the way her cunt is sucking him in, makes all his good intentions fly right out the window. He pushes forward even as he draws her hips back against him, and suddenly every inch of him is in her and she cries out again, from surprise at his sudden entry, perhaps, or maybe just from the relief of being joined at last.

What Clint wants, more than anything, is to start thrusting. He feels like he can only keep breathing, keep existing, if he starts moving his hips in the next second. Yet he can't ignore the thought that has only just occurred to him. He can't believe he forgot. _Fuck._ "I need to... I can't... I'm not wearing a condom," he says.

Natasha laughs a little breathlessly. "A little late, isn't it?"

It takes every single ounce of willpower he possesses, but Clint groans and starts to pull out.

"Don't," she says, squeezing him and making him see stars. He thrusts back in a little, involuntarily. She brings one arm back to try and hold him in place. "It's okay."

"Tasha," he whimpers. "I have one in my bag. It'll only take a sec—"

"I will _kill you_ ," she says, in a hoarse voice that nonetheless is able to sound threatening. "Just leave it, Clint. I haven't been with anyone else. Have you?"

Clint doesn't need more convincing. He knows she's on the pill; they use condoms for extra insurance. It's the sweetest relief he's ever felt when he starts to thrust at last. He's not gentle at first, isn't capable of it, shoving into her roughly and using his grip on her hips to keep her in position. He'll leave finger marks on her skin, but he knows she won't complain. Just more evidence for Messano to see. _Evidence of how much you love being fucked by me,_ Clint thinks. He can't help the possessive thought. He tries not to think of Natasha in terms of possession, ever, because that way lies only pain, and a swift kick to the nuts, but in his deepest, darkest, most secret of selves, he not only feels it, he revels in it.

But the hard, fast fucking is going to make him come too soon, and he wants to draw this out. So with effort he slows his rhythm, letting go of her hips and draping himself over her, until they're pressed skin to skin, her back against his chest. Her back feels incredibly warm, almost hot, and he's not sure if this hurts her injuries, but he knows if she really can't take it she'll tell him. Clint reaches forward with his hands and twines his fingers with hers, his hips still moving, still stroking his cock in and out. "Mmm, you feel so good, baby," he rasps into her ear, and it's only at these moments, when she's as vulnerable as she's ever going to be, that he dares to use any kind of endearment.

"Shut up and fuck me," Natasha says, pushing back against him. "Fuck me with that big, hard dick."

Clint groans, knowing that he's being outplayed. Even though she's only saying it to appeal to his masculine ego, he finds himself responding to her words, speeding up his thrusts again until he's practically lifting them both off the bed with every push. He switches angles slightly and she tightens her fingers around his, moaning loudly. He grins to himself and stays in that position, trying to hit that same spot inside her over and over again, and then she's coming apart, her body tightening like a coil before it releases. She nearly throws him off her, so he falls over onto his back, pulling her with him. He can't fuck her very well in this position, but he's not willing to pull out, either.

Natasha doesn't leave him any choice, however. After giving herself a few moments to recover, she moves away, disconnecting them. Before Clint can protest, she turns around so she can straddle him, sliding easily down his shaft to take him into her body again. She's so wet there's no friction whatsoever, and she shudders a bit at the overstimulation, still sensitive from her second orgasm. Despite that, Natasha tightens her inner muscles, squeezing him until he has to close his eyes. She starts circling her hips over him, then moving up and down, and after the first few strokes Clint can't resist and opens his eyes again. The sight of her riding him, her pretty tits bouncing from the effort, is his downfall. He goes rigid, every muscle stiff, and grabs her hips hard enough to bruise as he starts shooting her full of his come. Natasha lowers herself so that they're pressed chest to chest, Clint groaning in her ear, and hangs on until the very end, not letting him buck her off. She milks every drop, riding out his orgasm until he's slack and feeling like a wrung-out dish towel. Only then does she relax and move off of him. 

Natasha sighs contentedly and puts her arms around him, Clint's chin resting against the top of her head. After only a minute or two, however, she rolls over, off the bed. He misses the warmth of her beside him, but isn't feeling up to moving. Maybe ever again.

He watches as she goes over to Anderson, who he had forgotten about completely, and methodically undresses her, trailing the prone woman's dress, shoes, and bra from the entrance of the suite. Then she rips off the other woman's thong underwear none too gently, letting the scrap of lace flutter to the floor next to the bed. Natasha reaches between her own legs, and when she pulls her hand away it's soaked with their combined fluids, which she proceeds to rub over Anderson's inner thighs.

"Ew," Clint says, but without any heat. There are now two naked women in the room, yet somehow he can't take his eyes off the one he'd recently fucked. Was that normal? He doesn't want to think about the implications too much.

Natasha opens Anderson's purse, rummaging through it until she triumphantly pulls out a condom. Watching her rip it open with her teeth stirs something in Clint — it's an image he saves for the next time he has to take care of matters on his own. Natasha unravels the condom, then rubs it between her legs and tosses it in the trash.

"See, we should have used one," he says. "Some people are so impatient." She ignores him. He continues, "Anyway, if we used a rubber, won't she wonder why she has come on her thighs?"

Natasha shrugs. "I don't think she's going to break out her microscope and analyze it, Clint. She'll probably think it's just her own bodily fluids. Or who knows, maybe you came on her thighs at some point."

"Can I come on _your_ thighs?" he asks hopefully. "Next time?"

She shoots him an exasperated look, but there's amusement in her eyes. "Help me move her."

Clint gets up from the bed, pulling on his discarded underwear. "So that's a maybe, then." He takes Anderson by the ankles while Natasha has her by the arms. They set her down on the bed and toss some covers over her.

Natasha starts to dress, and Clint wants to ask her to stay, but it's a stupid idea, risky, and anyway, cuddling, with a drugged-out stranger also in the bed, is a little weird, even for them. So he watches Natasha strap on her shoes, and he can't help but notice all the marks, big and small, that he's put on her tonight, declaring to the world, or at least the people on this ship, that she's his. Well, not that anyone would know Clint put them there. He _is_ supposed to be her brother, after all. But _he_ knows, and _she_ knows, and he hopes that when she's with Messano and looks at herself in the morning, she'll think of tonight, and him.

Resisting the urge to drag her close and kiss her, Clint crosses his arms instead. "Good night," he offers, and Natasha responds with a single arched eyebrow. Then her gaze drifts a bit lower, to his neck, and a small smile plays on her lips.

Natasha wraps a coat around herself, successfully covering the remaining visible marks on her. She leaves, the door shutting behind her with a slight click. Clint sighs and looks over at the bed, where Anderson has currently started to snore. A shower first, he thinks, then some shut eye.

Once in the bathroom, he flips on the switch. "Holy shit!" he exclaims. Stunned, he approaches the mirror, looking at himself with wide eyes. He twists his head so he can get a better look. The light has revealed a purple bruise on the side of his neck. It's huge. " _Christ_ , Tasha," he mutters. The mark is positioned low enough that he'll be able to cover most of it up with a tightly buttoned shirt collar, but he's still amazed as he pokes at it with his finger. It's only a _little_ tender, despite how it looks.

He studies it from all angles, thinking the light's playing tricks, but there's no mistaking — it's still the biggest hickey he's ever seen.

Clint stares at himself in the mirror. Then a grin splits his face, and he whistles as he goes to turn on the shower.

//\\\

**Author's Note:**

> It's been awhile since I last wrote smut, so... be gentle. Like Clint tries to be. (Natasha made him do it!)
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed. I'm working on a longer, angstier thing, but I finally got this betaed and edited, so I thought I'd post.
> 
> Thanks for any feedback. It's soothing and delicious. <3


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